


Skinny Love

by Lady_Iwaizumi



Series: Bokuaka Oneshots! [11]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Alternate Universe - Bakery, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Seduction, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Books, Brothers, Character Development, Chronic Illness, Crushes, Developing Friendships, Father-Son Relationship, Flirting, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Hiding, Homelessness, Humor, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Libraries, Light Angst, Literary References & Allusions, Literature, M/M, Painful Sex, Pick-Up Lines, Platonic Relationships, Prostitution, Reading, References to Jane Austen, Rough Sex, Sad with a Happy Ending, Self-Acceptance, Self-Esteem Issues, Sick Character, Snow and Ice, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-10-27 16:23:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17770190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Iwaizumi/pseuds/Lady_Iwaizumi
Summary: “Akaashi Keiji.” He said shortly, not breaking eye contact.“Keiji?! Like the manga by Tetsuo Hara?!” Bokuto wailed before he could stop himself.The baker named Akaashi nodded, eyes going a little wider.“My older brother’s name is Matsukaze.”“Are you shitting me?!”A homeless prostitute finds a skinny love in the dorky baker boy down the street.





	Skinny Love

**Author's Note:**

> A Haikyuu edition of my original short story "Bitter & Bright" from my other page BodhiSeongBae! I can't believe how many typos i have in the original...how sickening. Anyhow, please enjoy!
> 
> skinny love (n): definition #2--  
> "a relationship where the foundation is not love, but being with another just for the sake of being with someone to fill a void of loneliness."

Bokuto Koutarou left the library with two new books, a dislocated pink finger and an uplifted spirit. He wasn’t really sure why libraries were able to penetrate his façade so effortlessly, but he guessed it had something to do with how early in the morning it was whenever he arrived, body and mind so exhausted and depressed from his active nightlife that it become difficult, if not impossible, for him to return to his disgusting reality. He entered in dejected spirit, and always exited with soaring emotions and a smile on his battered lips.

Ah, the joys of being a prostitute.

Maybe he decided to take a trip to the public library because of the shock he had undergone during the late hours of the darkness; it was hard being surprised, as a male prostitute in Tokyo, but there had been something about the customer that made Bokuto’s head spin. He did a few things that were only borderline terrifying, hence, Bokuto’s confusion at feeling surprised. The experience left him with a painful dislocated pinky. The broad-shouldered prostitute left the man’s room in a hurry, and the next thing he knew, he was hidden deep within the public library, wishing one of his chosen novels would spring out a skinny love for him to hold, if only for an hour or two. _You done good, Bokuto_ , he told himself, smiling down at his new collection of books. _Nothing makes a hooker pine more than Jane Austen. I’d better smile this time around…last time I ended-up crying and almost suffered another mental breakdown. That was two-years ago—you should be stronger, now. You don’t want to cry on the precious pages again. If my old classmates could see me now, I wonder what they would be shocked at more: the fact that I’m a whore, or the fact that I now read religiously._

As he stepped-out into the cold, violent winter, his stomach began growling aggressively; he rolled his eyes and let out a deep sigh.

“You never quit talking, do you?”

His stomach rumbled again in response, sending tremors through the rest of Bokuto’s lower torso. Despite his irritation, the young man knew he should eat something, since it had been about a day since his last meal. Of course, he had survived longer periods going without food than that, but the last few nights had been especially draining. Had Bokuto caught a look at himself in a store window, he probably wouldn’t recognize himself. The muscles he once had were all but disintegrated into weak flaps of skin wrapped around gritty bones abused by homeless winters, the grey and black hair he once wore spiked up now stuck out in all different directions, and his overall appearance was pitiful and weak, poorly disguised by thin, ripped skinny jeans, loose t-shirts and dirty hoodies. _Oh well_ , he thought, dreading the reality of eating more garbage food as his meal. _Things could be worse!_

Bokuto wasn’t sure how that logic applied to a three-year prostitute, but for once, he was thankful for his overly positive attitude.

 

The weatherman said snow would be falling soon, so Bokuto took in the beauty of the streets before they were covered by the white devil. Snow made everything considerably worse for prostitutes, especially someone like Bokuto, who already felt cold wherever he went; never the less, he walked down the street happily, holding his precious books close to his chest with both forearms wrapped around them protectively, mostly to shield their covers from the chilling air, and a little bit because he only had a t-shirt and a crappy lavender zip-up hoodie on. His skinny jeans were a little too tight, a lot too thin, but they made his ass look good (or so someone told him once), and a good ass attracted customers. Customers meant money, and money meant food and savings. Horrible sense, but when you don’t eat for several days, the sweet ecstasy of food, even something as simple as a cracker somehow made Bokuto’s suffering worth it.

Well— _nearly_ worth it.

 _I’ll try the coffee shop again_ , Koutarou decided, glancing to his left. _But make sure you walk on the other side of the road, go down to where the block ends, THEN cross the street and go into the alleyway. People could notice if you went past and turned left—you don’t want that happening again._

You would think Bokuto knew the game on instinct by now, but there was something off about the coffee shop oddly named Bitter & Bright. The first occasion on which Bokuto was starving so terribly he went digging through their garbage cans, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him. Even when he checked, confirming no one was in sight, the eeriness—maybe even the _guilt_ —of his method of pertaining nutrients struck a chord somewhere. Bokuto actually felt thankful for the guilt, because the sensation reminded him of his humanity. Long story short, he left the coffee shop and bakery alone for a few weeks, only returning on a slow Sunday evening, right before closing time: he managed to find a bag of moderately healthy donuts that weren’t too sweet, and, as a result, filled his tummy happily and went without eating for three whole days.

Bokuto hurried across the cross-walk with aching knees, looking forward to the bags of deliciously aged rolls he would find in the alleyway of Bitter & Bright. The cutting pre-winter air had been taking a toll on his already weakened immune system, so the prostitute was eager to find some calories to nibble on; in the midst of his attitude reinforcement, Koutarou was feeling like his usual self (whoever that was), smiley and confident—both characteristics were very unusual in his line of work, and despite those factors being part of his typical mask, these were genuine. The only time on which that sincerity exposed itself was when he had good finds at the library. Honestly, Bokuto had never been the reading type, but ever since his life went to hell, curtesy of his father, he found the fictional worlds welcoming and shining, never rejecting him because of his looks nor his career; books were Bokuto’s friends whom he spoke to often, drawing their inspiration for his every day comments and views on the cold world circling around him, closing in darker every day.

Another perk of his cheeriness included being so confident he would be able to play-off digging through the garbage to anyone who caught him.

“Winter is on my head, but eternal spring is in my heart,” Bokuto giggled to himself, quoting Victor Hugo while watching a group of quiet friends make their way into the café. “This day makes for may productive hours.”

After the group disappeared into the building, Koutarou casually leaned his back against the neighboring building, diverting suspicion from the shop owners across the street; people always had to wait where he stood, because the crazy antique owner was, so to speak, a bit off his rocker. He never opened on time, and thus, Bokuto had an alibi, should anyone care to ask the lowly street wanderer. Once a few minutes passed, increasingly winterish winds cutting through his thin layers and during which his finger joints froze-up, Koutarou slipped through the narrow fence opening between the buildings, successfully entering the retired donut paradise. The alley was small, crooked, with about six trash cans lined-up beside the shop. Bokuto enjoyed the set-up, though, because the stack of extra trash bins in the corner provided him with a good hiding spot, should he need it. He had to hide quite often, actually, not necessarily from the shop employees, but from creepy people who roamed the streets at night looking for trouble—this alleyway always seemed immune to their poison, allowing Bokuto a few hours of peace during the darkest time.

_Maybe that’s one of the reasons why I’m drawn to this place._

Bokuto carefully set his books down on the back steps leading to the back door; previously, he made the mistake of holding onto his precious artifacts as he dug through garbage, and, of course, one book slid from his grip and plummeted into a heap of old frosting and coffee beans. Koutarou cried for three-hours that afternoon, but thankfully learned his lesson. Since novels were now his only source of relief, he took the risk and now carefully set them on the bottom step of the coffee shop at the back door. Bokuto could easily be a very noticeable young man, what with the colorful spikey hair-do, his thick stature and glimmering golden eyes, but the times of youth and beauty had passed for him—the friendly, cheerful Bokuto had died the minute his father began selling him out to pay for his drug debts. As the bitter years went by, Koutarou learned that it was better to go unnoticed during the day and turn bright at night, when customers would be on the prowl; and so, the prostitute kept his head down in daylight hours, tensed his shoulders and hid every respectable part of him a nice person might want to see and befriend. There was no room in Bokuto’s life for friendships of appreciation and humor. His world was much bigger than that, he had bigger problems then homework and relationships…although, some days, he did miss the simpler times when being a superficial teenager with an unrequited crush was his main concern. But time went on, never stopping for a single moment, and Bokuto adapted accordingly, hiding his true form until the darkest night arrived. Such was his new life.

The second he moved towards the first garbage can, the handle on the door clicked.

Quicker than a single strike of lightning, Bokuto bolted towards the corner of the alley, throwing himself into the small corner, hidden by the stack of trash bins. The heavy door swung open crisply, creaking from the cold weather—Koutarou couldn’t help but be concerned for the life of his books and hoped whoever had come outside wouldn’t trip, spill on them or throw them away. He waited, unaware that he held his breath during this time. The door hadn’t opened all the way; he knew this because this wasn’t the first occasion on which he had almost been caught digging around like a mole. The silver door was heavy duty, and with the amount of wind swooping around, it would be even harder than usual for the employee to contain. The whistling continued, but despite the circumstances, Bokuto didn’t feel very afraid of what would come next. Perhaps his confidence made him numb to humiliation.

 _I’m not that lucky, though_ , Koutarou thought, waiting silently behind the trash bins.

 

Three long seconds passed, and then, the door closed.

 

Bokuto waited, listening for a sign that someone else was in the alley with him. None of the employees smoked, so he cancelled that option out—after giving his trained ears time to adapt, the prostitute came to the conclusion that no one else was outside. When he peeked around the corner of his trash can fort, Bokuto was a little surprised to see that a large muffin had appeared on the top step, right above his pile of novels.

It might have been dropped. It might have been poisoned. It might have been unbearably sweet and thus, inedible to Bokuto’s weakened immune system, but he took the golden opportunity without a second thought. _A full muffin?! Could it be true?!_ Koutarou thought in joy, carefully snatching the gift up. It was laying on its side, a few minor pebbles stuck in the surface, but Bokuto brushed them off joyfully and thanked God for his generosity. Usually after he secured his prey, the prostitute would take off immediately—but today was different for a number of reasons. Firstly, Bokuto became so astonished by the quality of the banana nut muffin he didn’t move for an entire minute, marveling in its beauty, its density and thickness, certain to be delicious beyond reason. Secondly, he ended-up biting into the muffin where he stood because his mouth started watering so badly he became desperate, longing to know what the taste was like, what a real, non-dry, pre-garbage muffin tasted like.

He gobbled up a huge bite and was not in the least bit disappointed.

Koutarou wanted to _weep_ at how soft the texture was. He had forgotten how perfect the top of the muffin was, not having eaten one in years, especially one of such high superiority. Bokuto chewed slowly, savoring the feeling, the immediate fullness of his stomach upon meeting the heavy, delightful goodie; his spirits were lifted even higher as he selfishly devoured the muffin, barely leaving a single crumb in the peeling. _Now this is real satisfaction_ , Bokuto concluded, sighing excitedly, as the wind no longer affected his breathing pattern. _Sex is nothing compared to this feeling. Maybe I should tell my customers that—not that they need any more calories…_

Reality struck him, all of a sudden, and Bokuto realized he had been standing outside the back door for almost five-minutes; snatching his books, he tossed the muffin peeling into the trashcan over his shoulder and hurriedly made his escape. Right before he slipped through the fence opening, it occurred to the young man that luck—his ancient friend luck—had finally granted him some mercy; _how long has it been?_ Bokuto wondered, staring in awe at the back door of the bakery. _How long has it been since I felt lucky? Months? Years? …Well…however long it is…I guess I should take advantage of this day._

That being thought, Koutarou smiled down at his books, his full stomach and snuck out of the alleyway, ready to throw his heart into Jane Austen’s romantic drabbles for long hours before sauntering off to work for the night.

 

During his readings, Bokuto couldn’t help but convince himself that someone left the muffin there with him in mind.

~~~-~~~

A few days later, Koutarou had a feeling he was close to discovering who left him the muffin. It all started in the late evening, as he was reading one of his books in an alleyway across the street from the coffee shop. He was exhausted from a long night of work, pissed because one of the customers tried ripping him off and hungry as fuck because he hadn’t managed to locate any edible garbage since finding the muffin days ago. Bokuto’s good mood only lasted a single day, though his mask maintained itself and managed to prevent him from wasting time by sleeping the day away, in hopes of the misery wearing off. He sat in the middle of an alley, leaning against a brick wall while reading _Pride & Prejudice_. As the weatherman predicted, the night gave Tokyo a thin layer of snow, which meant gloomy hours of shivering for poor Bokuto; he secured a crappy blanket for the day and was in the middle of taking advantage of it when the bell on the front door of Bitter & Bright jingled loudly, interrupting him.

_—Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been standing near enough for her to hear a conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes, to press his friend to join it._

_“Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.”_

_“I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.”_

_“I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Mr. Bingley, “for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see uncommonly pretty.”_

_“You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet._

_“Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.”_

_“Which do you mean?” and turning round he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said: “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.”_

_Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth remained with no very cordial feelings toward him. She told the story, however, with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous.—_

**_Ching, ching!_ **

Glancing-up, Bokuto saw one of the main employees step outside, wearing fingerless gloves, a dark blue stocking cap and a casual, but warm black jacket on. As Koutarou had never been in love before, he didn’t understand the sudden lurch inside his aching chest when the young man’s face was revealed to him, but knew from his readings this individual must have been someone of importance, curtesy of the cool way he walked, and the overall quietly proud attitude in which he existed. Bokuto loved the shade of his obsidian black hair, the little waves here and there that made it seem uncharacteristically messy…he loved those thin, stern eyebrows, the tiny tip of his nose, the long, surely toned legs hiding underneath black jeans, and Bokuto especially appreciated the undetermined color of those heavy lidded eyes, maybe green, maybe midnight blue. He was also sporting an expressionless face, something you can expect from someone who works with coffee. Koutarou raked his eyes over the man’s body, envious of his supreme warmth—he almost considered going over and flirting with the guy, maybe even get him all riled-up in the backseat of his car so Bokuto could exchange sex for his outfit. The jacket was just _so damn warm_ and _so damn cool_ …

Aren’t prostitutes creative?

Bokuto realized he had been staring too long, and while he told himself he would be willing to sleep with someone to get a warm jacket, the young man really wouldn’t have gone through with it unless he was at the end of his desperation. Of course, this was probably the worst condition he had been in throughout his entire life, but Koutarou didn’t really like thinking about that fact. You weren’t supposed to think about stuff like that too often; it ruins you, tears you apart. As he took one final look at the employee’s blank expression, he realized, with a start, that they were staring right back at him.

They may have been across the street, a good thirty-yards away from each other, but Bokuto could tell those stunning, mysterious eyes were locked on his own. What they wanted, he couldn’t see. What he did know was that right before the bakery boy turned the corner to head towards the parking lot, his head gave the slightest inclination of a nod, directed at Bokuto. The prostitute surprised himself by nodding back.

Bakery boy turned away quickly, hurrying towards his car to escape the cold and leaving Koutarou baffled for a moment before his brain warmed-up and realized what the nod most likely implied. _I bet he left the muffin_ , Bokuto thought, watching as the employee started his car and drove out of the lot. _So—one of the employees knows me, does he? …I can’t recall ever sleeping with him…he must just be one of those watchful bastards who’s more interested in other people’s lives than his own._

 

Although Bokuto was startled and confused by the revelation, he gave the bakery boy a silent message of gratitude and tried to ignore of the numbness of his toes by returning to Jane’s masterpiece.

~~~-~~~

One week later, Koutarou’s up-beat attitude had returned.

After a successful (and moderately “easy”) week of work, he managed to get ahead in his bank account, securing enough funds to reach the halfway point of his goal; he was saving-up for an apartment, but knew he needed at least enough money for five month’s rent, plus some extra cash for whatever mess his father got himself roped into while Bokuto was away. He didn’t speak much with him anymore, going off on his own to save whatever money he made whoring around, but sometimes when he felt generous, Bokuto popped by and gave him some food or money. He was too nice, and eventually came to regret his kindness, although it always won in the end. With the amount of cash he had rolling-in at the moment, he predicted he would have enough saved for at least five-month’s rent at an apartment complex, which wasn’t too terrible, especially considering that meant keeping him indoors for the rest of the winter season.

Although the price of this victory was the abuse of his sexuality, Bokuto was happy with the outcome, and decided to give himself a little treat by taking a trip to the coffee shop.

As his last appointment only ended an hour ago, Koutarou still reeked of sex and alcohol, the latter of which, his customer had guzzled plenty of; the public gym wasn’t open yet, so he decided to just let the winter wind air his body out as he waited for Bitter & Bright to open for business, hood covering his mess of hair. He expected to be waiting a long time, since it was only four in the miserable morning and the shop opened at six—when this was proven false, Bokuto began to wonder if a positive attitude was key in gaining streaks of luck. He waited by the steps of the café with his pile of books, hanging-out until the closed sign would be switched to open; it was one of the coldest mornings yet, and still, despite the fact that he was only wearing that same purple hoodie and torn-up skinny jeans, Koutarou was in a rather spritely mood. He looked forward to having another one of those muffins and some coffee to wash it down. This time he planned on picking something a little less rich, since heavy, sweet foods made him gag…thankfully, as a homeless prostitute, his taste buds helped him out once in a while. He had been able to stomach the banana nut muffin earlier because his tongue realized how malnourished and needy his insides were.

 _Why is it called Bitter & Bright?_ Bokuto wondered, wiping a later of frost off the railing with his bare fingertips. _Things can’t be both bitter and bright, can they? I mean, I’m bitter about everything, and no one would call me bright if I let them get close enough. Sultry and seductive, maybe, but not bright. Bright means something different entirely. How can someone be bitter and bright at the same time?_

 _It’s probably just a stupid coffee pun_ , a voice in my head responded dryly. _You tend to search for deep meanings much too often, Bokuto. I don’t think coffee can really be inspirational like at._

_Maybe so. But what if—_

His thoughts were halted by the appearance of an employee.

 

Koutarou stopped fiddling with his fingers, diverting his attention to the same male who had nodded at him on that rare occasion; he was in the middle of walking up the stairs, only managing to put his foot on the very first step before Bokuto’s appearance startled him out of a morning trance. The young man’s eyes were a combination of both colors, emerald and midnight blue, looking somewhat surprised, as it was four in the morning on a Tuesday at the beginning of winter…here they were, two strangers standing in front of a coffee shop, silently staring at each other with curious intent.

“Um…we’re not open until six,” The employee said quietly through a pair of pale, delicate lips, voice still scratchy from waking-up. Bokuto almost didn’t catch his comment, being too intrigued by the male’s pretty appearance.

“I know!” Koutarou replied eventually, flashing the other a smile. “I’m just waiting. No rush.”

The employee nodded shortly, unable or unwilling to return the smile, though he still maintained a strange, gentle sense of politeness. He lingered for a moment before slowly continuing his walk up the front steps; while he did this, Bokuto took the opportunity to give him a once-over, concluding that with his slim build, thin lips, wild dark hair and sexy long legs, he quite possibly maybe almost wouldn’t mind sleeping with the bakery boy for his awesome jacket. Koutarou wasn’t expecting the conversation to continue, and definitely wasn’t expecting to be asked a question as the employee fumbled with the café keys by the door.

“How long have you been out here?” He asked without looking at Bokuto.

The prostitute wouldn’t have been so taken aback, had his tone been more casual; if he would have said “Been out here long?” he would have answered right away…but that wasn’t what the darker haired male’s voice implied. His carefully worded question was asking a deeper, and, to Koutarou, quite shocking second question. Bokuto’s earlier suspicions about someone watching him had proven to be correct: this employee was asking _“Have you been waiting out here since your last appointment?”_

“Uh—only about twenty-minutes!” Bokuto covered up, using his positive energy to sound playful. “Why are you here so early, Mr. Bitter & Bright?”

The skinny male turned to him, finally managing to open the door.

“It’s my turn to bake today.”

“You have to be here at _four_ in the _morning_ to _bake_?” Koutarou asked in horror. His shock wasn’t false; waking-up that early just to make food sounded terrible, though…he would have gladly chosen that as his career, versus what he did now. _I guess people wake-up at four a.m. for different reasons._

“Mhm.”

Bokuto watched blankly as the unnamed bakery boy opened the door, sliding the key back into his pocket; although he knew the conversation was but over, Koutarou found his gaze continuing to linger around the area, unaware that the other boy was hovering as well, and holding the front door open—the next words that exited the baker’s mouth sent Bokuto’s head spinning a second time.

“Are you coming?” The darker haired male asked.

Bokuto’s golden orbs connected with those greenish, midnight blue hues, fighting a silent battle while being stunned by this offer.

“…What do you mean?” Koutarou replied stupidly.

The employee seemed to break out of his morning funk, expression suddenly readable with some distant emotion related to concern.

“Well…it is, like—” He leaned over, reading the thermometer on the door. “Negative ten degrees out. I can’t let a loyal customer stand out here for two-hours.”

Bokuto wasn’t sure if the last part was referencing his garbage scavenger hunts, but the idea escaped his freezing mind as he grinned excitedly, hurrying inside the café behind the generous employee. _Man_ was it warm inside; the heat wasn’t even on yet, and already Koutarou felt as if he had entered a sauna. In hopes of saving some of this warmth for later, Bokuto kept his tattered hoodie on, absentmindedly waiting around while taking-in the scene ahead. The shop had much more lounging area than he originally thought, based on his occasional glances through the window as he strolled by on his daily walks that kept him somewhat warm. It looked more like a restaurant than a coffee house—there were booths everywhere, even right next to the opening of the bakery in the back room, much cozier than any stone alleyway Bokuto slept in. He silently wondered if he could get by with reading in here sometimes, instead of freezing his ass off in the streets, waiting and dreading for the night to arrive. Maybe days spent at the coffee shop would make life more bearable.

Or, maybe…days spent some place warm would make the nights that much colder.

“You can sit right here,” The baker said, catching Bokuto’s attention. His slender hand motioned to the booth nearest to the kitchen. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

The man disappeared behind the doors, and Bokuto was left alone in the silence of the empty café. He sat down where he was told to, checking out the low-key decorations scattered on the walls around him, feeling very at home: there were numerous differently colored owls drinking coffee and wearing glasses, other owls wearing wool socks, lots of blues, lots of purples, all the colors and shapes that represented coffee perfectly. _And also_ , Bokuto thought. _They seem to represent this mysterious employee perfectly._

A few minutes passed, and as Koutarou’s frozen limbs began circulating blood again, the baker (now wearing an adorable blue apron with an owl printed on the front, as well as revealing his beautiful skin, long limbs and petite neck) exited the backroom holding two pretty teacups and a pitcher of freshly made coffee; he set one of the cups in front of the prostitute and asked another startling question.

“What’s your name?”

“Bokuto,” The thicker male answered, grinning himself out of shock. This guy was just too pretty… “But you can call me Bree, if you’re into that sort of thing and don’t want yourself to know you like men.”

Judging on the unamused expression, Bokuto guessed he wasn’t into that sort of thing and eagerly rebounded the question.

“What’s yours, mysterious baker boy?”

“Akaashi Keiji.” He said shortly, not breaking eye contact.

“Keiji?! Like the manga by Tetsuo Hara?!” Bokuto wailed before he could stop himself.

The baker named Akaashi nodded, eyes going a little wider.

“My older brother’s name is Matsukaze.”

“Are you shitting me?!”

Akaashi shook his head, expression relaxing as Koutarou stared in amazement. _Am I dreaming?_ He wondered suspiciously. _Did I die in that alleyway and go to heaven? The manga world of samurai Keiji Maeda in the Sengoku period is heaven, and this Keiji is a reincarnation of him, and he uses his older brother as a beloved stallion to ride into battle? Why is Keiji giving me coffee? Well, anyway…that’s awesome!_

As Bokuto sat in the booth, excited and practically buzzing in his seat, Akaashi disappeared into the bakery again; the prostitute poured himself some coffee and chugged it down, trying to wake himself up—when nothing changed, he pinched the rough skin on his hands, but it was no use. He was perfectly awake and perfectly aware of the present, for once, not wanting time to speed-up so life could go on. Why did this scene feel too pleasant to be his reality, though? Imagine the shock Bokuto’s humanity suffered when Akaashi returned, setting a round, flakey and fresh, icing drizzled cinnamon roll in front of him on a cute little plate. Bokuto really couldn’t handle sweet things in his state, but for today, he decided he didn’t care if he got sick—he would deal with it tomorrow. Just as his owl eyes began bulging out of their sockets, Koutarou wondered if it was possible to be turned-on by food; Keiji sat down across from him once more and poured himself some coffee, dumping several packets of sugar in it instead of making a fancy latte from one of the machines behind the register.

“How old are you?” Akaashi asked quietly, glancing up at Bokuto. It took the other boy a long moment to respond, mouth hanging open uselessly, trying to form words that made sense together. How could someone have such beautiful eyelashes? It wasn’t possible, unless they were a model or something. Maybe this guy was a bakery model, sent from the devil to torment Bokuto’s poor lonely heart.

“I’m—twenty-one,” Koutarou said breathlessly. The sweet scent from that damn cinnamon roll was driving him _crazy_ , as was the kindness from this coffee shop stranger. “How…how old are you?”

“Nineteen.”

Sensing Bokuto’s wide stare, Akaashi focused on his coffee, using a small container of creamer as his distraction. Koutarou managed to stop creeping the boy out by forcing his own gaze downward, so that he was pining over the delicious roll in front of him. _Don’t be so rude, Bo_ , he told himself, fidgeting with guilt. _There is such thing as kindness in the world…you just never get to see it because you chose such a degrading profession. He’s probably expecting politeness in return, so man-up a little!_

Well, Bokuto’s “manning up” option only included taking little bites from the cinnamon roll (which he almost choked on after experiencing a surge of pleasure so startling he had to bite his tongue in order to remember that he wasn’t at work, that he didn’t need to be afraid of the feeling), so the actual act of politeness had to be carried-on by Akaashi, who was used to casual conversations as these from working at the café.

“Does it taste okay?” He asked quietly.

“Mmmmm…it’s _amazing_. Did you actually make this?!”

Akaashi nodded, and Koutarou kicked himself for sounding so surprised, but the baker didn’t seem to be insulted. The prostitute made up for this accidental jab by asking another question.

“Do tell, Keiji-kun, how you became such a proficient baker?” (Here, Akaashi was a little startled by Bokuto using such a fancy word.)

“…I guess I’ve always been good at it,” He shrugged, talking in that same hushed, easy tone as he sat pressed against the back of the booth. “Then my brother asked if I wanted to open a shop, so…this is what I do now.”

Bokuto’s toothy smile surprised Keiji, but he kept his opinion to himself as the other was amused by the baker’s humble tendencies, noticing how his sentences rolled even faster off those pale lips when he was speaking of himself.

“Very impressive,” Bokuto hummed. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had such good food.”

Keiji’s starry eyes quickly shot up to meet Koutarou’s but hurried back down in an instant. That short second was enough for a silent understanding to form between the two.

 

Akaashi knew very well about Bokuto’s garbage escapades.

 

Despite this slightly shameful reveal, Koutarou kept the conversation alive, which was strange to him, considering he hardly had conversations that weren’t about sex preferences in almost three-years. It was intriguing how easily he adapted to Keiji’s manner of speaking, to how normal this topic was compared to Bokuto’s every-day life.

“So what’s the system you have with your brother Matsukaze? You open the store, lure the customers in with promises of luxurious Turkish delight, then let Matsu-kun chop their bodies up, stuff the pieces into mince pies while running a barber shop in the back?” Bokuto teased playfully, fingers wrapped tightly around the warm teacup. Akaashi’s eyes widened for a second, catching all the references, then cleared his throat and shook his head.

“Not exactly…” Keiji said slowly. “We’re supposed to take turns baking—I do it Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Sunday, since I’m better at it, and he’s supposed to do it the other days; it’s been like that since we started last year, up until recently…we both work at the register, too.”

“And when you say ‘up until recently,’ you mean…”

Akaashi almost let his emotions show this time, giving a huff as a slight shadow crossed over his narrowed eyes.

“Up until he started cheating on his girlfriend and asked me to do all the baking so he can successfully live his lie.”

Bokuto couldn’t help but laugh at the image of Keiji staring blankly at Matsukaze as he explained the current predicament to him, trying to make it seem like he was the victim, that he desperately needed his younger brother’s help if he wanted both women to stay in his life. Akaashi probably glared at him and threw coffee in his face, followed by stomping out of the room while screaming for him to go to hell or something crazy like that.

“What’d you say to him?” Koutarou asked eagerly, wanting to hear the end of the story.

“I said I would do it,” Akaashi shrugged. “Then the next morning, I went into his room, took a picture of him in bed with the other woman, sent it to his girlfriend then sprinted to the coffee shop to get to work.”

The prostitute let out a loud yelp of laughter before covering his mouth, bent over from the hilarious agony of the situation. As he attempted to recover, his ears detected a small laugh come from Akaashi’s lips, but when he looked up to see, it was too late, though, the ghost of a smile still remained, and Bokuto found himself immediately clinging to the sight. He would definitely need that image during bad nights of work.

 

_Maybe Keiji is the reason they added the “Bright” part._

 

“Well,” Bokuto giggled, stomach aching from the laughter. “That’s one way to split a business in half. I’m assuming he wasn’t successful in banishing you from the bakery?”

“Nope,” Akaashi said, returning to his quiet voice. “He sent me some angry texts, but I ignored them…he moved out of our apartment and hasn’t neglected his duties as a baker since. I guess it all worked out in the end.”

“I have to hand it to you, Akaashi-kun,” Koutarou grinned, raising his teacup to the other. “I wouldn’t expect such an act so ruthlessly honest from you. Congratulations on your victory!”

Normally when Bokuto stepped out of his world long enough to speak with other human beings, they found his way of speaking very odd, and, as a result, found him strange and to be avoided in the future—Akaashi, however, understood Koutarou’s loneliness, knowing whatever weird speaking patterns were probably on account of having little to no social contact with others for a long while. He liked the way Bokuto spoke, and so, smiled and watched Koutarou drink the last of his coffee. When the prostitute began pouring another round for himself, Bokuto was startled to see Keiji’s expression change to one of confusion—his thin eyebrows scrunched together as the hooker brought the teacup to his lips again.

“Did you just…you…you’re going to drink it just like that?” Akaashi questioned severely, eyeing the totally black coffee as if it greatly offended his existence.

“Of course!” Bokuto said, dipping a piece of the cinnamon roll into the black liquid. “I like it this way. It’s stronger, convinces me that I’m more awake than I really am.”

Akaashi didn’t miss a beat, transferring his gaze from the coffee to those golden eyes.

“That’s really disgusting.”

Bokuto’s mouth dropped open, but he quickly recovered with an insult of his own.

“Says you, Mr. Sugar Rush! How can you stand all of that sweetness?! You’re the one who’s disgusting, here!”

“Why would you want to drink something that’s just as dry as the bean it came from?” Akaashi questioned, his tone still quiet, but a little more emotional. “You’re just like my brother. He refuses to drink coffee unless it has no flavor what-so-ever.”

“I take offense to that comparison—I may like my coffee dull, but if I cheated on my girlfriend, I wouldn’t be stupid enough to do it while my annoyingly-flavorful little brother’s in the next room over.”

 

Koutarou knew Akaashi smiled at that, but he covered it up with his teacup, preventing the prostitute from spotting the beautiful scene.

 

Bokuto gave another laugh, and the pair fell into a comfortable silence, both reflecting on the entertaining conversation. _When’s the last time I talked to a normal person?_ Bokuto wondered, taking-in more of Akaashi’s physical appearance from behind his cup. _For the first time in a long time, I’m talking to someone about their life. I like it a lot, but…I’m starting to feel that stomach-churning dread again. I’m going to have to go outside soon, and going outside means work, trying to keep warm, hiding my belongings in the whorehouse, forgetting this conversation all together…_

Keiji returned from the kitchen, where he was baking more delicious rolls and donuts for future customers, asking another question as he sat down.

“What are you reading?”

The prostitute followed those curious eyes, looking down at the stack of books next to them on the table; Bokuto had almost forgotten about them. There were so many good things going on around him it was difficult to remember why he came here in the first place, but with that simple question, the boys managed to fill the next hour-and-a-half with non-stop conversation about books they’d read, books they loved, books they disliked, etc. etc. They talked about Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth, the genius of Jane Austen, the bittersweet nostalgia in every Narnia book—it was by far the most riveting conversation Koutarou had ever had the pleasure of experiencing in his short life. Akaashi loved books just as much as he did and explained how he had recently gotten into classic Chinese stories and their mysterious authors, which reminded Bokuto of the manga in which Keiji and his brother got their names from, which then led to a discussion about how far manga and anime had come since its beginning. When Bokuto finally fell back to reality and reminded Akaashi it was nearly time for the shop to open, the baker’s eyes flickered with panic, watching as Koutarou reached inside a pocket of his hoodie for money.

“It’s only 5:58,” He choked suddenly, voice the most strained Bokuto had heard yet.

Koutarou sat there in silence, not comprehending what the baker was getting at. Akaashi stood from his spot, becoming more casual as he played with the apron strings behind his back—the other boy found it cute, and almost blushed. He hadn’t blushed in over three years.

“We’re technically not open…” Keiji hinted further, finally getting Bokuto to understand. “You—You can just pay me back in another way.”

Bokuto’s blood ran cold at the latter part of the sentence, suddenly unable to move or speak at the cruel reminder of what everyone wanted from him, the only thing they _ever_ wanted from him—maybe Akaashi didn’t understand the implication meant for his new friend, what the words hinted at, silently demanded from Koutarou, but even if his thoughts didn’t lie in that style, it didn’t stop Bokuto from having to force down the vomit rising in his throat, heavy cinnamon roll preparing to come back up. The prostitute guessed it was always the quiet ones he should really watch out for…

Akaashi finally seemed to recognize the betrayal and hurt in his statement after a long moment of studying Bokuto’s pained expression.

“N-No!” Keiji cried stressfully, face faltering to regret and desperation as he stiffened. “I—I didn’t mean it like that, not at all! I just meant that you don’t have to pay now, you can just owe me later, or something…I…I wasn’t implying that—”

Koutarou let the baker ramble off his explanation, trying to hide the wave of relief he felt.

“Oh my gosh,” Akaashi hissed at himself stressfully, hiding his face in shame while bowing. “I’m so sorry, Bokuto-san, I can’t believe I sa—”

“You’re much too hard on yourself, dear Keiji,” Bokuto said, standing-up from his spot with a smile. “It takes a lot more than an implication to insult me.”

Before Akaashi could respond to Koutarou’s merciful response, a timer went off in the bakery, making them glance over, like the noise signified a break in their scene, the end to a beautiful, fake dream. They returned their gazes to each other, both seeming to finally notice the stress marks underneath the other’s eyes—Akaashi’s were light from morning fatigue and were sure to disappear once the sun rose. Bokuto didn’t want to know what description Keiji gave his. As a prostitute, appearance and skill were everything, and although he managed to keep his shame at a bearable level, he couldn’t help but feel insecure around someone so put together, someone with such a nice, pretty purpose…that was real beauty: sleepiness of a dark-haired baker boy. Bokuto shook off this feeling, giving Keiji a grin before reaching for the latter’s nearly-empty tea cup, slyly flicking a few dollars-worth of tip money onto the table, behind the pitcher where Akaashi wouldn’t discover it until later.

“Absolutely disgusting,” Koutarou said, shaking his head at the taste of sweetened coffee while grabbing his pile of books from off the table. “I’ll be seeing you later, Bakery Boy. And next time, we’ll talk about ways to uproot Matsu-kun from the family business. Okay?”

Bokuto laughed at Akaashi’s expression and exited the coffee shop called Bitter & Bright dreaming of midnight blue eyes, dark eyelashes and painfully aware of the final comment that chased after him through the sharp winter wind.

 

“Stay safe.”

~~~-~~~

Unfortunately, during the next few days, Bokuto found himself unable to heed to Akaashi’s suggestion.

He was right about the bad feeling in his stomach—it seemed like the moment he returned to his reality, back into the cold, terrible winter crevasse, everything pretty much started to fall apart. The guy who ran the whorehouse was at his throat for something or other, one of the sickest customers Bokuto ever had requested him for an entire night, the cheap apartments he had been looking at were entirely booked, and, worst of all, he was unable to find enough strength or time to enter the coffee shop where Akaashi worked again. Reading books only worsened his state of mind. Thinking about coffee, bitter or sweet, only made him sicker. He was coming down with some kind of illness, and his hoodie did little to nothing to protect him against the snow—yes, the sky had been consistently sending down flurries for all of Tokyo to enjoy, and that bastard weatherman was right for the first time of the season. Koutarou only wished he could have been right about a warm autumn instead.

Bokuto thought about these miserable facts as he was halfway through his appointment with the unusually smutty customer.

One of the things he was thankful for (as a prostitute and sometimes as his regular self) was youth; a lot of the time, when Koutarou found himself in the arms of a younger customer, he wasn’t so on edge, because it made pretending he was just a young college party animal who liked to get drunk and sleep with people a lot easier that way. Plus, the younger guys smelled better. This particular young man, however, was a dark exception to the prostitute’s gratitude; mostly, the customer liked to humiliate and debase Bokuto to the point of utter silence—he didn’t come around often, being a student of law and all, but when he did, Koutarou always found himself trying to get drunk enough to the point where he wouldn’t be able to register any of those mean, sadistic words or feel a damn thing.

 

It didn’t work, and Bokuto had difficulty understanding how drinking could appeal to people when its purpose never ceased to fail.

 

The law student threw Koutarou into several different positions, as always, settling on one of his favorites where the prostitute’s back was held up against his front as the customer slammed into him from below, no condom or lube to ease the burning sensation, legs stretched out to the side further than humanly possible. All the while the customer hissed terrible, degrading phrases in Koutarou’s ears, biting him like he was an apple and telling him about how this was all he was good for, being just another wandering whore in the underground of Tokyo’s red-light district—somehow these words stung worse than usual, although Koutarou didn’t know which pain was worse, his abused pride or the tearing of his well-used hole around the lawyer’s cock. He felt like his insides were being rearranged, beaten with a club until they were dysfunctional, dead inside his increasingly lifeless body; but the absolute worst part of his week came when this dark customer was in the middle of degrading him, thrusts getting harder below—he bit the shell of Bokuto’s ear harshly, probably drawing blood, and laughed words all too familiar:

“You can pay me back for this another day, _bitch_.”

At first, the prostitute didn’t understand what the lawyer meant, but then his hand moved from Bokuto’s chest to his throat, constricting around the muscle tighter and tighter until black spotted Koutarou’s vision. He might have let go then, but the prostitute couldn’t remember clearly—between the alcohol he tried chugging and the agonizing pain in his hips, it was all very fuzzy. You’d think he would be thankful for that fact, but it didn’t really matter, because what you couldn’t see, you could always feel later on.

The customer only paid Bokuto half of what he owed. Before leaving, letting Koutarou lay limply on the bed, struggling to maintain his consciousness, he said he was saving the rest for the next time, when Bokuto would “return the favor.” The door slammed shut, and the world became quiet, dulled behind the ringing noise in the boy’s aching ears. It was then that Bokuto tried to remember what Akaashi Keiji’s smile looked like, but the memory made him even more upset, because he had never really _seen_ Akaashi smile before. Not a real, large, happy and totally free smile. Koutarou became sickened with himself when the words of the customer combined with the words of the bakery boy from days earlier; it suddenly felt as if _he_ was behind Bokuto instead of the lawyer, spitting fowl insults into his face while trying to prove himself right by forcing Koutarou to agree as reluctant tears fell down his cheeks in heavy streams.

Bokuto must have forced himself to throw-up seven times that night; the problem was that he hadn’t had anything to throw-up for a few days, the cinnamon roll being the last food to make it into his churning stomach. He didn’t want to get rid of that evidence. He wanted to keep it forever, wanted to be thinking about it constantly—but…in his line of work…thinking about something that pure would be sinful. And so, with a heart heavier than ever before, Koutarou shoved his fingers down his throat until all the remnants of semen and dough were gone, flushed down the toilet. After waking-up from being passed out on the same bathroom floor, Bokuto caught sight of a watch someone had dropped on the floor: it was four in the morning.

He decided then that if his legs were going to give-out permanently after this night, and were unable to carry his weight to heaven, the last place he wanted to be was a coffee shop named Bitter & Bright.

There was no time for a façade—he probably couldn’t have pulled one off even if he wanted to…not after the dreadful night he had. Bokuto needed to get downtown as quickly and as silently as possible, which seemed _im_ possible, judging on how separated his hips were, making his thighs and knees practically useless. His face was numb, if not from the word-beating he took, then from the grimy, thick air of the whorehouse, which was so unlike the warmth of the coffee house Bokuto almost wept. The anguish he felt did not have to form an actual expression on his dry, hollow face; the emotion succeeded in rather a sick, fake character in a game of underground scum. When Koutarou thought about what type of character he would look like from a reader’s point of view, maybe in one of Jane’s novels, he gave a dry, unamused laugh.

 

_Bokuto (also known as “Bree”) is a homeless male prostitute in the book The Myth Of Bitterness. _

_He is a minor character who gets by in life by selling his body to wealthy males looking for a good time during their trips to Tokyo’s red-light district. Despite being one of the first individuals the reader meets, his time in the novel is short, unmentionable, though readers have described him as being somewhat-important due to his bitter rants about his hideous lifestyle, which were key in revealing the heroism of the main character. Little is known about what became of Bokuto, as he is not mentioned after Chapter One._

_If you would like to add to this page, click EDIT. If you would like to delete this page, you must be authorized by creating an official account and must get three signatures from others in the fandom who agree with this choice._

And so, after Koutarou pulled on his tattered hoodie, ripped skinny jeans and bloodied sneakers, he wandered deeper into the whorehouse, slipped his precious books out from their hiding spot, tucked the small wad of bills into one of his pockets and stumbled out into the winter streets, hoping the image of a dark-haired baker boy looking in his direction would be enough to get him where he desperately needed to be.

~~~-~~~

Bokuto should have been there by five.

Only after he forced his eyes to stop fluttering shut and rolling to the back of his head did he look around and realize he was standing in the alleyway between the antique shop and Bitter & Bright. To be honest with himself, Koutarou wasn’t sure how he made it—the snow fell heavily while he was occupied in the whorehouse, and the freezing conditions didn’t help the situation. Not only were his hips sore and urgently in need of rest, but now, they were also aching in pain, grinding together and shifting awkwardly with every struggling step. He tried walking with his legs as close together as possible, hoping to relieve some of the tension, but that seemed to make things worse. The rest of his bones followed the example set by his hips, and Koutarou’s poor skin, even the parts covered by his hoodie and jeans, prickled by sharp snowflakes and cutting wind, began to slow his pace. It must have taken him a solid forty-minutes just to drag his failing body to halfway point. The faster Bokuto tried to go, the more worn-down he became; and of course, there was also the frightening idea that someone would confront him or try to take advantage of his fragile state…it was technically still night, after all, in the early hours of the dark winter season. Koutarou forced himself to borrow a bit of his “pain grasping” energy and use it for making everything about him seem smaller.

At the time, Bokuto already felt less of a human being—he wasn’t sure how much smaller he could get. These distressing physical sensations caused the collapse of his mental state.

 _What am I doing?_ Koutarou thought blankly, helplessly, taking a look at his shivering, weakly form as he stood frozen in place beside the coffee shop. It was like his memories were lost, buried in the snow underneath his shoes; he had been focusing on too many things all at once. _Where am I? …Why am I even here? Why can’t I move anymore? …What’s my name again?_

_Who am I?_

Gradually, Bokuto’s mind came to a yield sign—his neck bone creaked as he looked upwards, away from the pitiful image of himself, or who he once was; a few snowflakes were drifting down from the dark clouds, falling into his line of view. Everything was suddenly very quiet. The wind wasn’t as loud as usual, whispering an occasional word here and there…maybe it had been that way all along, but Koutarou was too delusional to notice. His dull yellow eyes locked-in on the siding of the shop; it was light blue, lightened even further by the brightness of the snow, the dreariness of the sky, and yet, Koutarou didn’t find the scene sad. Not at all. His mind wasn’t really turning any cogs, too spent and weakened to affect him any longer. He watched the building silently, hardly a breath escaping his lips—it felt like he was the only person in the entire world, alive only in his mind for a split moment in time. Bokuto didn’t know why he was standing there, but he didn’t ask. He didn’t know why the building was blue, and he didn’t ask that, either. Not a sound reached his tender, raw ears. The prostitute didn’t form a single coherent thought. Nothing was happening. He wasn’t waiting for anything, or anyone.

He was just _there_ …quietly existing.

A loud clamor of smashing bells sent a jolt through Bokuto’s body. Someone must have let the front door slam shut; either way, the pain suddenly returned to Koutarou’s limbs, and when he blinked, it occurred to him that he had made it to the place where he wanted to die. _Bitter & Bright_, he thought vaguely. His knees began trembling from the weight he put on them. _What a cute little place…I wonder if I’ll die bitter, or bright? I guess I’ll never know…it’s…getting to cold to tell anyway…_

Suffering too heavily to think about anything else, Bokuto let himself fall to his knees—muscles trembling, he crawled through the snow towards the garbage cans, hoping that when he made it, he wouldn’t be in so much pain. Snow was _everywhere_ , up his sleeves, in his pants, in the holes of his shoes, on his chin, in his grey and black hair…his face was numb, yet he could still feel every brush of coldness, every ache of every bone in his failing body. When the prostitute finally managed to sit himself up against the wall, he was losing consciousness, and not because he told himself to shut-off his emotions. His will level was at an all-time low. Bokuto just felt too tired, too beaten-up…he couldn’t put it through any more stress. It had reached its final limit. Didn’t it deserve a break?

 

Everything was coming to a close…and Koutarou was ready.

 

Before he could let himself drift into the endless abyss of sleep, his ears faintly caught the sound of the back door being opened—this time, it opened all the way. There was silence, the same silence as before, for a long, curious moment; then, a strange, yet familiar voice echoed through the alley.

“Bokuto-san?” It asked softly. “Bokuto? …Are you out here?”

The wheels turned ever so slightly, creaking the whole way, trying to get Bokuto to remember who that voice belonged to as the silence waited for a response. The wind whistled, but other than that, nothing. Koutarou didn’t know who was supposed to be speaking. Hesitant crunching noises could be heard, merging with the stillness. _Is someone here?_ The prostitute wondered, vision fogged over his eyes, barely open, staring ahead into the opposite corner of the alleyway. _Did I walk into someone else’s territory? Are they coming towards me, or going away?_

“Bokuto?”

The voice was closer, now, and even softer than before. The crunching noises, too, were close, but quiet. Both were coming from behind the line of trashcans, and as Bokuto struggled to process the information, trying to connect the dots, someone peeked their head around the corner and spotted the boy.

Keiji, he thought. _My sweet little baker boy Keiji._

After this realization, all the stress from Koutarou’s shoulders released as he let out a lazy, peaceful sigh. He was finally content. He had made it to his destination. _Now there was nothing left but t—_

“Bokuto,” Akaashi said again. His voice was so different from its usual tone that Koutarou had to open his eyes again, just to see what caused this interference. The baker wasn’t in the spot where Bokuto’s eyes had last spotted him—instead, he slowly comprehended that Keiji was, in fact, right next to him. One of those long, pale hands grabbed the prostitute’s wrist, and the previously frozen skin began burning.

“Keiji-chan!” Bokuto said in a hushed, fatigued cheer that he could barely register from his own ears. “I returned my books to the library…”

Koutarou glanced over as Akaashi inspected him—he paused for a moment, realizing the other boy had spoken again. Keiji thought for a second, then nodded at Bokuto firmly. His expression was oddly tense.

“That’s good, that’s good…they charge you if you don’t return them on time, you know.”

“Mhm…that’s why…I…I returned them,” Koutarou huffed, losing all his breath.

Akaashi’s arm suddenly wrapped around Bokuto’s back, and his other hand still held onto the prostitute’s wrist; he tried pulling Koutarou to his feet but almost immediately set hm back down after hearing his pained yelp. Bokuto’s tailbone was throbbing by now, along with his hips, which seemed to move further and further away from each other with every passing second. Everything went hazy for the older boy—once again, all he could feel was pain, and all he could do was try to block it out as much as humanly possible. He heard Akaashi swear softly (which he didn’t know was possible), and then both of the baker’s warm hands were holding Koutarou’s face; he wanted Keiji to do that forever, because his skin was just so _warm_ …

“Bokuto-san; I’m going to carry you, okay? But you have to stay awake, you can’t fall asleep, alright?”

“But…it…it _hurts_ ,” Koutarou forced out, squirming in discomfort.

“I know, but…it won’t hurt in a while. We’ll go someplace warm, and I’ll make you coffee again, alright? Does that sound good?” Akaashi offered. Bokuto’s cheeks were gaining some feeling again; he hardly heard what the baker boy said, aside from the mention of coffee. He opened his fluttering eyes again, delighted over the fact that he wasn’t hallucinating Keiji’s presence.

“No…no sugar.”

The baker almost smiled and shook his head.

“No sugar, I promise.”

Bokuto wanted to grin at that, but his lips were still frozen. He didn’t think he would have minded if Akaashi solved that problem, too—in fact, it would have been kind of nice, being kissed for once…

Some minutes later, the prostitute realized he was now lying not in a snowy alleyway, but in the backseat of a heated car. A door shut, a seatbelt buckled, and they began to move.

“…Warm?” Koutarou whispered to himself, not sure how he was still able to speak. A few of his stiff fingertips twitched against the fabric, and he watched them in disbelief as they grazed over the soft surface of the seat. “Mm… _war_ … _m_ …”

“We’re almost there, Bokuto-san,” Akaashi’s voice said. “Almost there, just hold on.”

“Yeah…almost…home,” He echoed distantly.

“Yeah,” The baker agreed. “Almost home.

 

By the time Akaashi was carrying Bokuto into his apartment, the prostitute had mostly regained his senses.

Everything still hurt, and he still found himself unable to walk or move properly, but thankfully his head got back in the game and was able to start getting a grip on the situation. Although he felt relieved beyond words to be in such good company, another part of his instincts was reacting negatively to the situation.

Keiji opened the door while simultaneously carrying Bokuto in his arms—it must not have been difficult, Koutarou guessed, given how he had only eaten a handful of times this week. He continued to carry him as those golden eyes adjusted to the dim lighting of the two-bedroom apartment, feeling himself be laid down on the couch in the living room.

His hips weren’t looking forward to what was coming, and they _screamed_ for him to prevent it.

Akaashi went to the shut the door as Bokuto pondered the situation, wondering what he should do; the couch was damn comfy, but he was used to doing it in beds at the whorehouse, never at the customer’s house. _When did I agree to this, anyway?_ Koutarou asked himself, mind swirling to catch-up as Keiji glanced at him while unfolding a blanket.

“Better?” The baker asked, throwing the soft cotton over Bokuto’s body. It was thin, but the prostitute didn’t expect such a nice gesture.

“Ah…yes. Thank you.”

A nod only resulted in Bokuto’s neck aching again, which triggered the rest of his numerous injuries into the same state of mind; he tried not to grimace, knowing that could only end in the customer taking advantage of his pain tolerance. Akaashi noticed immediately, but thankfully, only reacted by hurrying away into the kitchen. Koutarou used that time to try and think clearly, attempting to remember what his usual façade looked like.

 _I think…I think I have to be cool, collected, smooth_ , he thought, skin trembling at the sudden change in temperature. _Keiji will notice a few things, sure…I can’t seem to stop myself from shivering, although I can’t even feel it happening…but I can stop other things. Yeah. If I take initiative and go after him first, he might not notice the shakiness, the cold sweat, the glaze that’s probably over my eyes…_

As Akaashi rushed back into the room, he interrupted Bokuto’s plan of sitting up and smiling at him.

“Wait wait wait,” He hushed gently, setting the mug he had retrieved down so he could lightly grab onto the prostitute’s shoulders. Bokuto’s expression broke easily as he looked up at the baker in shock; the image was still blurry, and he prayed he would be able to stay conscious. “You shouldn’t sit up. I’m going to get you more blankets in a minute, okay?”

_Tempting, but I can’t let myself be fazed by this deception._

“That’s okay…”

The reply was meant to come out seductive, but to Koutarou’s frustration, it exited his cold lips as a weak whisper. Still, he moved forward with the plan, grabbing onto Akaashi’s covered forearm as he went to straighten up again—Bokuto wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible so he could enjoy sleeping in a heated environment for once. Akaashi’s pretty eyes locked with the other’s as the owl leaned closer to his face.

“We can stay warm a different way,” Koutarou teased, lowering his voice. “If you’re up for it, _baker boy_ …”

By the time the last syllable ended, Keiji was already tucking Bokuto’s arm back underneath the blanket and reaching for the cup on the coffee table; he went so far as to press the cup against the prostitute’s lips and tip it forward as if he were a child.

“Drink this a little at a time, alright?” Akaashi suggested calmly, pressing the boy’s head forward so he could swallow without choking. “It’ll help you get warm.”

Bokuto did as he said, stuck in a state of shock as he sipped the black liquid from the hot mug. It took him a second, but he realized what the drink was after feeling a sense of de-ja-vou. With the state he was in, this feeling was more than welcomed. Akaashi was still watching him carefully, a bit of agitation in his glossy eyes as he leaned the cup back, letting Koutarou form an opinion.

“It’s…bitter,” He whispered, looking at the baker in confusion.

“Yeah. You like it bitter, remember?” Keiji reminded him.

The wild-haired boy stared in wonder, then watched as Akaashi set the cup down and exited the room.

 

_Safe to say not all of my sense has returned quite yet…_

 

As the bitter taste of the coffee melted in Bokuto’s mouth, he suddenly remembered how he came to know Akaashi the baker—he recalled the stories about his brother, how he had left the muffin for the lowly homeless kid on the stairs, how he had invited Bokuto inside that one morning, how they talked until the shop opened, speaking of books, Keiji’s life, basically covering every topic except sex…that particular realization was what set him at peace. He let his dead-weight body sink into the couch, letting out a long, trembling breath he didn’t know he was holding—Akaashi returned to the room holding a heap of blankets, mittens, a stocking cap, wool socks, a pillow and some type of ice pack.

“Don’t fall asleep yet, okay?” Keiji repeated, hurriedly covering the prostitute in layers. As Koutarou tried speaking, the words stuck in his throat, the baker managed to get the mittens onto his large hands, the pillow underneath his head, the other blankets over his body and the stocking cap over his ears. Still, he seemed to be hesitating about something when Bokuto finally got his words out.

“I’m…I’m still dirty,” Koutarou informed him quietly. Despite his joy over becoming warm, it suddenly made him remember that he had been unable to claim a shower for at least three days.

“You can shower after you sleep and eat something, alright?” Akaashi promised. His fingers were breaking one of the ice packs, but then one of his hands moved out to touch my forehead. “Can you tell me what hurts the most, Bokuto-san?”

“My hips,” He answered quickly, reply already prepared.

“ _Oh_ ,” Keiji accidentally mumbled out-loud, taking his hand away. There was silence for a second, and Bokuto finally turned his attention from all the fabrics to the baker’s blushing face; he still looked concerned, however, biting his lip nervously. The ice pack was still in his hands, caught between those fidgeting fingers. “Right. I should…probably…take those off,” He continued quietly. “They’re soaking wet…I should…probably…”

“Don’t!” Bokuto started desperately, voice cracking. “Don’t put those on me—please!”

Akaashi looked where he was pointing (it was hard to point with mittens on), understanding the prostitute’s sudden fear.

“They’re hot packs,” He explained innocently. “See?”

Bokuto could have died and went to heaven when Keiji pressed one of the hot packs to his cheek; his covered hands immediately went up to secure the touch, which made the baker chuckle adorably.

“I know, I know…they’re really warm, but I was going to put them on your hips first, since those hurt the most. I’m going to have to slide your pants off to do that…is that okay?”

“No…” Bokuto shook his head limply. “I—I don’t want you to, but if…you have to…that’s fine.”

“Don’t worry,” Akaashi said, pushing the heap of blankets back. “I don’t like guys like that.”

“Huh,” The other boy scoffed weakly. “Yeah…neither do I.”

 

Keiji froze at that comment, shooting Bokuto a broken glance—Koutarou fluttered his eyes closed and tried not to think about it. The baker continued with his movements below, setting the hot pack onto Bokuto’s left hip area, which was severely bruised as well; the right hip ached something fierce, but Bokuto ignored it because Akaashi had stated speaking again, speaking with more sincerity than he had ever heard before in all his years, even before he became a whore.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi said gently, _knowingly_. “You’re very much human, and very much still alive. I guess…you don’t know that this title means, despite your bitterness…you’re still _incredibly_ bright.”

Koutarou was starting to slip away again, soothed by Keiji’s words and the warmth of his mittens and the hot pack on his hip. There was a moment of silence which Bokuto took to gather his own response.

“Akaashi-kun,” He whispered, eyes close to shutting. “…How do you know I won’t steal from you?”

The prostitute thought he had already fallen asleep or died, because he could have sworn the boy in front of him was smiling as he answered, fingers grazing against his forehead lovingly.

“All I have are recipes.”

~~~-~~~

Sometime during the day, Bokuto woke-up feeling angry. He knew it was the same day because he didn’t feel any better, and unfortunately, he hadn’t made his way into hell quite yet. His hips still hurt like a bitch, his fingers ached, his nose was cold, his insides still felt all mixed up from that stupid lawyer and his rough ways, and his head felt like it was overheating.

“Keiji,” He mumbled. “Keiji…”

“Right here,” The baker replied. A figure of some sorts leaned down in front of the coffee table, touching a bare spot on the prostitute’s wrist. There was a heavy something around Bokuto’s shoulders, and although he couldn’t figure out what it was, he knew it was much too warm to be his purple hoodie.

“I hate my dad.”

Yeah…he was still out of it.

“He was so mean to me,” Bokuto rambled in a low, grumpy, yet incredibly sad tone. “He hit me a lot, for no reason at all, and…and he always told me I needed to work more, like he did when he was young. He said I was wasting time, that…that there was no need to rest. He said I was wasting time…”

Koutarou trailed off, mouth getting dry.

“You know, Kaashi…this is all his fault. It is, Keiji…it’s his fault for turning me lose into the whorehouse, the bastard…it’s _his_ fault that I’m like this. It’s his fault that I—that I have to open my legs and widen my hips for whoever wants to pay for it, all so he can have some stupid drugs…I was a pretty nice kid. For a while, I was, if you can believe that, Akaashi—do you…” Bokuto turned his head to the right, even though his eyes were closed. “Do you believe me?”

Akaashi didn’t answer the question, but his voice came through in a gliding motion, like someone speaking in one of Bokuto’s sweetest dreams. It was comforting to hear. He wasn’t sure what made his anger ease more: the words, or the person speaking them.

“And yet,” The baker whispered. “You still manage to be bright.”

Koutarou’s spirit smiled at that comment—he didn’t know if Akaashi kept referring to his intelligence on novels, or if he was simply calling him bright, like an enigma or something, but as he cuddled himself further into the couch, he decided he didn’t care. If this was some kind of skinny love, one he would grasp onto no matter how it affected him, one he desperately needed and wanted, Bokuto wasn’t going to fight against that power. If it lasted five-years, or maybe two, or just the year, he would be fine with that.

 

If Akaashi thought he was bright, well…who was he to not believe him?

~~~-~~~

A clatter of some sorts woke Bokuto up.

He laid there for a moment, trying to distinguish where the sound came from; when it ceased to repeat itself, he let his eyelids flutter open tiredly. The ceiling was dim, apparently the only light source coming from a lamp in the corner behind the couch; it was just enough for Koutarou’s eyes to adapt quickly, though he continued to lay there motionless for quite some time. Someone’s padded feet stopped right before hitting the carpet—Bokuto peered over, recognizing Akaashi’s messy mop of hair.

“You’re awake!” He noted softly, rushing over and setting a fresh cup of coffee on the table as he sat on the empty edge of the couch. His expression was still concerned, but not as worried as Bokuto remembered. “You look a lot better.”

“I feel a lot better,” Koutarou mumbled, shifting on the couch so that he was lying on his side, back pressed comfortably against the cushions. “How…how long did I sleep?”

“It’s still Friday…about nine-thirty right now. You got a good fifteen hours in,” Keiji explained. Bokuto could feel those midnight blue, greenish hued eyes watching his own, but was still too groggy to handle returning the look. “I did take your pants off, just in case you were worried or something…”

Koutarou gave a breath of laughter, forcing himself to sit-up a little higher to look at his savior properly as he teased him.

“And what did you do that for, dear Keiji-kun?”

The prostitute was amused to see his expression turn into one of surprise and slight-panic; his tone remained the same as ever, however, calm, collected but with just a touch of speed.

“Well, I—your jeans were soaking wet, so the blankets couldn’t really do anything to get your legs warm, so I took them off and threw them in the drier. But when your legs were still cold after about fifteen-minutes, I had to start rubbing them a little, and then they circulated blood again, but after you shower I have some sweatpants you can put on.”

 _He hasn’t changed_ , Bokuto thought, trying not to smile. _He takes a dying, broken prostitute into his home and he hasn’t changed a bit._

“And that’s all you did?”

Akaashi’s eyes met mine and blinked once.

“Yes.”

“Didn’t sneak a peek or anything?”

“No.”

“Didn’t accidentally touch anything you weren’t supposed to?”

“No.”

“Didn’t give into my seductive comments from earlier?”

“No.”

“ _Did_ run your hands up and down my legs?”

Akaashi opened his mouth, then shut it again, the new question confusing him.

“Um…yes?”

“I’m just teasing you, Kaashi!” Bokuto laughed weakly, chest throbbing, though the smile managed to reach his eyes. That was a good sign. “Am I still in critical condition, or did I manage to bounce back?”

“Mm…well, you’re not dying of hypothermia anymore,” He informed the other, reaching out to feel Koutarou’s forehead. If I wasn’t awake before, I definitely was now. “Your fever is gone, but…I’m not really sure what to do about your— _other_ injuries.”

Keiji may have casually added the last portion of that sentence, but Bokuto knew what he meant well enough. He suddenly remembered how the baker had carried him to his car, trying not to agitate Koutarou’s hips further as the prostitute whimpered. Speaking of hips, Bokuto’s still ached and felt out of place, but not as badly as before. He shifted the blanket down to investigate some of the injuries he had previously failed to recognize: there were large bruises on the tops of both knees, probably from when he let himself fall into the snow, along with a few raw spots of skin most likely from the ice frozen to the frays of his ripped jeans…but the thing he expected to see most was not there. He didn’t shower after the customer like usual, so there should have been a good amount of dried cum and other bodily fluids staining the insides of his battered thighs.

_That means he…he…_

“Akaashi,” Bokuto began shakily, looking over with wide eyes. “Did you wipe me down?”

“Yeah,” The baker nodded casually. “With hot water. You said you were dirty, and I thought it might keep your legs warm…but you can still shower in a bit, after you eat.”

“I—I—I’m so sorry!” The prostitute replied hurriedly. He felt the most vulnerable he had been since his last appointment—suddenly, every light in the entire world seemed to be focused on him and his disgusting self, how he exposed such horrors to the innocent Keiji, who was only trying to be nice. “Y-You shouldn’t have had t—”

He couldn’t even bring himself to say those worlds while looking at Akaashi. It was just too horrible. How could he think about that while he was in the same room as this cutie, while he was looking _right at him_? Oh, how awful it must have been for Keiji to touch him, to wipe off such sickening fluids off his already sinful skin…

“You shouldn’t have to, either,” Akaashi whispered.

The pair looked over at each other silently; the apartment noise ceased, and Bokuto found himself trying to burrow into the couch further as to avoid being seen and judged while also wanting to hide his blush. What was it about this hot ass baker that made him blush so often?

“So, um—” Koutarou cleared his throat, playing with the sleeve of the cool black jacket over his hoodie. “I know you’ve shown me enough kindness already, Kaashi, but um…what kind of food do you have here?”

The corners of Akaashi’s lips creeped upwards.

“I’ll cook-up something. You should drink your coffee, before it gets cold.”

Bokuto couldn’t help but sigh in relief as Keiji left the living room, leaving the other alone to sulk; _who would’ve thought?_ He wondered, running his finger along the jacket sleeve. _I eat garbage donuts from Bitter & Bright for months on end, and now, I’m in the apartment of the co-owner, drinking coffee and waiting for him to cook me dinner. What kind of character development is this? Should I be waiting for some sick plot twist?_

As Koutarou released another deep breath, his memory recognized something about the jacket he was wearing: it was black, warm, cool, and slick as hell.

_Wait a second. Haven’t I seen someone wear this befo—_

“Here’s your appetizer.”

Akaashi set down a heavy donut with chocolate frosting and colorful sprinkles on it. Bokuto blinked a few times, mouth starting to water immediately, unaware that Keiji was admiring his adorable chipmunk-like cheeks trying to hold back a bright smile. The baker handed Koutarou the coffee from the table first, and the other boy eagerly accepted it, feeling a shiver run down his spine from the exposure of his upper legs when he shifted. The second the coffee hit his tongue, however, he knew something was wrong—it wasn’t bitter at all. It was crammed full to the brim with sugar, creamer and some type of sweet chocolate flavoring that erupted in a flavor overload. Bokuto thought maybe Akaashi had accidently given him chocolate milk or something, but when he stopped drinking and saw Keiji watching, he knew it wasn’t an accident.

“What’s with the flavor?” Bokuto asked curiously, eyebrow cocking as the sugary substance soothed his throat.

 

Akaashi smiled.

 

Koutarou’s hands went limp with shock, almost dropping the mug into his lap; the breath inside his struggling lungs was gone, evaporating into thin air, never to be seen again. He probably looked like a mindless idiot, but he was too overwhelmed and breathless to care. Akaashi was actually _smiling_. Bokuto finally caught him in action. The blurry images from his sleepy delusions rushed back to him in a hurry, combining with the beautiful scene in front of him. Keiji’s smile, though normal and casual, was blinding.

“I think…since every day’s a new day…you should start this one with a little more brightness—don’t you think?” He asked softly.

 

Bokuto couldn’t respond, because what he said had already come true.

**Author's Note:**

> Have i ever mentioned my OTP? No? well, it's canon now, so there u go, kids, BOKUAKA LIVES ON. you can also read my other bokuaka prostitute/police officer fic "Seasons of Love." I'm glad the recent chapters showed how much of a dork Akaashi is, because that's how I've been portraying him since the beginning!
> 
> Thanks for reading, and don't be afraid to leave a comment, kudos or bookmark for later! Have a great day  
> Love,  
> Bodhi
> 
> OCTOBER 2019 EDIT: My original boys love novel Lauri's Snowflake is now available! Check my tumblr for the link!  
> tumblr, insta: baku_bodhi  
> other AO3 page: BodhiSeongBae


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